


The Shadows that Connect Us

by orphan_account



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Doctor Who Crossover, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mystery, Parentlock, Supernatural Crossover, Violence, long series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-05 22:37:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When sherlock and john decided to have kids nearly ten years after Sherlock's "return from the dead" they didn't realize life could be so hectic. Taking care of their quiet but intelligent son Michael and their erratic, brilliant and yet rash daughter Janey, the two of them find life to be full of surprises. But when Janey digs too far into her parents' past and uncovers something Sherlock intended to keep buried she winds up becoming entangled in a crime and kidnapped. Keeping his suspicions and fears from John as to who this mysterious kidnapper is Sherlock must find her before it's too late. Unfortunately, he's not the only one who's children have gone missing, and some surprising connections pop up that Mycroft is not quite willing to admit....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> I have a rougher version of this story on fanfiction.net. If you want to find it, it has the same title and my username is the same. On this website I'm going to be a little bit more anal about punctuation an grammar, and edit some rougher edges. :) please enjoy and send reviews!

Shadows.

Light and dark, mimicking the touch and sound of real life. Fake yet almost alive in his hands, he flips the machine that makes the shadows, causing them to ripple along the walls and change.  
They ripple subtly, like snake-skin.

In he depths of the darkness his smile is infectious and maddening, like the grin of a chesire cat as it disappears and reappears at random moments. Covered and uncovered in light it moves with him, the man in the suit who should not be there. Blinking, his eyes' shine like cats pupils as one gloved hand flips the magnifying machine over and over head over feet.

Dusky light.

So easily shattered.

The thought is intoxicating.

So easy to break apart the light.

Yet it would always regroup.

This was his problem.

The pesky light would always regroup.

Multiply...

Multiply...

Like mice.  
This was his fear.  
That the light had multiplied. Yet in the darkness, he could comfort that worry. The darkness had grown too. Abiding its' time, like a spider weaving a web. In the center he was the spider, his legs reaching out to all ends of the Earth. Touching, tainting.  
Painting.

There is a knock.  
Someone enters his hotel room in the dark, their uncertain blue eyes flicking over the scene with fear. Those eyes are haggard from little sleep, and twitch with the kind of alertness of a small rodent. She does not walk in defensively, in fact nothing about her suggest any kind of protection. She is afraid, but not afraid for her life. She has only felt the darkness, not tasted it's bitter poison and filled herself.

The woman knows not what true fear is, the man thinks. He thinks it would do her good to learn true fear of something.

Fear of him if no one else.

"Sir...?" Her voice sounds faintly, and her hands reach to pick nervously at the coif of blonde that is her hair. Red velvet gloves. Like his favourite flavour of cupcake.

Like blood.

Like roses.

Like... like the colour of that man's brains as he fell to his death.

Though... not really.

See it was all a game.

Pretend.

Make-believe.

A child putting pieces on a board, waiting for a true master to teach him.

Like the ever-present illusion of light when there is only, truly, darkness.

The man turns and steps into the light, and his brown eyes shine maniacally as he touches the scar on his forehead. His voice is warm for such a chilling silhouette.

 

"Ah miss Baker, Good morning! I trust you got the information all right? Care for a danish?" He holds up a brightly coloured bowl full of pastries, and when she refuses, takes one for himself happily.

The woman bites one thumb-nail, looking down and away in a mix of indecision and panic. She doesn't meet his eyes as she steps forward with a brown envelope, red heels clicking on the linoleum. Her body language is tense as she stares at the hotel room, at how it looks unslept and unlived in. Like a red smudge she seems not to belong, and she shies away from the light the turning hour-glass window gives. Her eyes flick to his face, to her wrists, and then to the floor.

"Yes sir... but..."

Taking a bite from the pastry, the icing dribbles a little down the man's chin as he eats. The way he chews is with childlike abandon, and even in a suit he cares not about mussing up his tie. Instead he uses it to help wipe away some of the crumbs, swallowing noisily right by her ear as he steps forward. 

"But.. what?" His whisper is through a mouthful of food.

The woman hands him the envelope, but her fingers linger on it even as he scoops it up in his hands. She does not dare touch his fingers, but her knucles shake.

"I... I don't know about this... They seemed like such a nice couple... and..."

For a moment, the man's grin disappears. He looks at her long and coldly, her voice fading away as her eyes meet his. Miss Baker presses a gloved finger to her mouth as she gazes deep into those eyes, afraid of the coldness that fills them. She can't see the end of them, they seem to go on forever. Like endless pits they warn her.

Her voice trails off, and she lowers her hands and is the first to break the staring.

 

"Now, now. I assure you, you're doing the right thing." The man says, after a moment of blinking almost sleepily his grin returns at full tilt. He takes her hand and shakes it, and it's like Miss Baker imagined the look he had given her as he wraps and arm about her shoulders and gives a light squeeze. Like an old friend. Like a brother.

"You will be rewarded in full, and I will have what I want..."

The woman's eyes mist over at the thought of reward, and a timid smile crosses her red lips as she relaxes. Her prize. Soon the shaking in her hands would stop then. soon she'd be able to...... to feel again.

Her voice is filled with bliss.

"I suppose... Though I never caught your name...? How shall I contact you if something goes wrong?"

The man pauses, steering her towards the door as the envelope is tucked under his arm safely.

His smile becomes wider as he gives her a light push, spilling danish crumbs on the floor.

"I suppose it can't hurt..."

His eyes alight with the darkness again as he finishes his pastry, chewing the last bite and savouring every bit.

She watches him, waiting patiently for an answer.

"Moriarty."

Miss Baker looks at him, her eyebrows drawn together.

She doesn't see the shadow at the door, lifting a pistol so it lies level with her head.

"Moriar-"

BANG.

His smile turns into a cold, callous laugh that stretches and fills the room. Crouching, the man clucks in mock-shame. He brushes a lock of her hair almost lovingly away from her still porcelain cheek.

"Oh dear, you seemed to have stained my new shoes too. Guess you won't get that reward after all."

Her hands are red.  
Red.  
Red like roses.

And red like blood.


	2. Chapter one~ Pillar Of Salt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo here is the first real chapter. It's fairly light, but yeah. Let me know what you guys think of the characterization of Janey and Michael and don't be afraid to comment! :3

Chapter One~ A Pillar Of Salt

She wraps the soft woollen scarf about her neck happily, pulling the worn knitted edges over her fingers and through the loop so it makes a perfect knot at the center of her collarbone.   
Like a tie.  
Almost even.  
Almost there.

Against her pale skin the blue is bright like a robin's egg, illuminating her eyes that never seemed to stay exactly one colour. They are a deep, waiting, thinking blue-green right now as she brushes her dark hair away from her face, letting it fall down her childlike shoulders in gently curled waves. It falls in her face and she pulls at it in irritation, wishing she could cut it for the hundrenth time.  
When she had asked Papa, he had said no.  
She personally suspects to herself that Papa is just afraid that if he lets her she'll act even more like Dad then usual.  
Dad drives Papa insane sometimes.   
But they always love each other.  
Always.

She has mentally calculated it in her head, and it's all perfect. Neither her Dad nor her Papa would be home four at least another half hour, because of the rain and allotting for any mishaps in traffic and the pattern of the light changes. As well, Uncle Mycroft was bound to call. Just last week while he had been babysitting her and her brother, she had caught him making a phone call to one of his men about it. He had chased her out of her hiding place in the pantry when he discovered a spy in his own home, his roundish face turning pink at overlooking even a small little girl.  
Then again, Janey was not often "just" a little girl.

Nobody can scold her as she twirls a little to admire her reflection in the mirror, the scarf too long for her and dangling almost at her ankles. Of course, most of the clothes she's wearing aren't exactly her size. The trenchcoat she's borrowed makes her seem dwarf-ish and strange, and the sleeves nearly fall all the way to her hips. She rolls one up to deal with the stubborn lock of hair that always sticks up from the rest of it, and ties the belt of the coat once for good measure. She's barefoot, but only because she is not so foolish as to try on a grown man's pair of shoes. She knew well enough that she'd fall on her face if she did. Her reflection smiles at her, and the result is unexpectedly suiting. Sure, it's too large, but the darkness of the coat brings her eyes into sharp focus.

In her opinion, she looks rather dapper.  
Then again, opinions were relative as Dad would say.   
It was quite possible she supposed she was merely imagining herself, skewing her own perception.   
She couldn't trust it.  
Frowning, she calls for her brother, her voice drifting downstairs to the little fair-haired child eating oatmeal with strawberries in the living room. His round hands grip the spoon halfway to his mouth as he hears her, and his brown eyes grow depressed as he realizes his morning won't be filled with gentle cartoons and warmth before school.

“Michael! Come see the outfit I made!”

Michael Holmes, five and a half years old and at times despairingly used as his sister's servant walks up the stairs with a sort of lowly trudge, rocket footie pajamas and hair slept in and ruffled. It sticks out like duck feathers on either side of his ears, giving him the appearance of being even younger than he was. He rubs one soft brown eye grumpily, annoyed that yet again he was being paged by his sister who was at once clever as she was brutally annoying. There's a certain gait about him that suggests a quiet personality, and one would not be telling a lie if they said Michael sometimes gave the impression of acting like a little old man.

His eyes widen at the mess he walks into as he approaches their parent's bedroom, clothes strewn helter-skelter all about the floor and the once-pristine bed. He grips his elbows and bites his chubby lip worriedly at the small hurricane his sister has created, and one thing crosses the panicked young boy's mind.

Papa is going to have a fit.

In the center of it all, preening like a tiny detective princess, Janey Holmes clasps her hands together and waits with baited breath for some kind of reaction. Her eye bore into Michael's neck as he looks like he wants to begin shouting, but doesn't have the courage or the stamina to go up against his older sister.

After a moment... her brother slowly, methodically speaks.

“You look.... Like someone stuck you in the dryer too long and you shrunk...” 

The girl doesn't react, but her ears turn a little redder as she twirls back around to inspect herself in the mirror.   
Her self confidence in that one moment is shot, and she sees now that she looks stupid and outlandish. Scowling, she steeples her hands together under her chin in thought.

Michael smiles a little at the foolishness of siblings, wandering about and slowly picking up the clothes on the floor. There's a resignation to being a servant of her as he begins to clean up, used to his sister's erratic behaviour.  
He scoops up a striped shirt of Papa's, a black vest of Dad's, and was just bending down to reach for a pair of mismatched socks when Janey speaks again, this time more of a murmur.

“Darn... I was sure I had it this time....”

She twirls around again, pacing back and forth like a kitten with too much energy. Her socks make slight padding sounds that makes Michael think of the footprints of faeries in his books. He sucks his thumb absently, a habit he has been unable to quite break yet. Finally, when his curiosity can wait no longer, he dares to ask and break her concentration. He has little patience for these matters, and can't see why everything couldn't have a simple enough solution.

“Had what?”

Her blue eyes flash icily as she stops, turning on him and gripping his round shoulders. The ferocity does little to faze him, but her words send prickles up his spine.

“An image Michael. Don't you see? Even you must understand that I need an image?”

Janey looks for any glimmer of comprehension in her brother's eyes, but upon seeing none scowls and flings up her hands in exasperation.

“Do you even understand who we are the children of? Have you done no research at all?!”

She tugs at her hair, as if she can will it into submission. Michael senses the delicate secrets Janey is keeping from him, and the thought that Dad and Papa are keeping information from him as well is almost too much to bear for the five year old. His annoyance rises as his sister begins to mumble at top speed, touching plans and ideas in the air that were only in her mind, seeing steps ahead that he can't hope to follow. Her stupid maps and plans, always burning on all cylinders so that he can see the flame in her eyes.

It infuriates him because he cannot relate, and his face turns light pink from being in the dark.

“What do you mean? Janey, what are you talking about?! They wouldn't keep secrets from us! Tell me!”  
He reaches out and pulls roughly at her oversized sleeve, causing her to snap out of her daze and focus on him. Her voice is hushed, and she reaches out and grips her little brother's hand soothingly. Somewhere inside herself she knows she is scaring him, and she calms his nerves by taking a deep breath and daring to relax.

“I'm talking about Papa and Dad's job. How one day.... I would like to be like them...How I can stop criminals.... even ones as strong as....” She swallows, and looks away. Michael blinks as for the first time he sees his sister's confidence deflate for just a second. A shiver crawls over her and she doesn't look quite so tall. Quite so rabdily energetic.

Her hair hides her eyes that have turned soft green as she stares into the distance, lost with some unknown fear. Her little brother, hand still warm from her touch looks in confusion and wonders if for all her cleverness if Janey isn't just a little bit mad.  
The silence fills their sound.

In that silence, she feels for a moment totally alone.  
Michael, oddly enough, feels the same way.  
Neither sibling understands the other, and they never really have.   
After all, Janey worked well with Dad, and Michael loved nothing more than reading a picture book to Papa.  
Like most brothers and sisters, though there was love between them, there was not comprehension.

 

The distinct sound of the key turning in the lock make both of them jump in surprise from their thoughts.  
Janey, instinctively realizing she is going to be in trouble again dives for under the bed, pulling Michael with her as both of them listen to their parents stomping off the rain from outside. Janey hears Papa's voice filtering through the stairway. He sounds frustrated as usual with Dad.

“Sherlock I'm telling you that you can't just walk into peoples homes like that, one of these days someone is going to call the police-” 

Dad snorts in derision, the sound of him opening the closet to put his coat away loud and creaky.  
“Don't be ridiculous John we are the police, and besides, I don't seem to recall you protesting to loudly when I broke the window with a rock to get in. Besides, I had to. Mycroft was following us and I don't feel like talking to him at the moment....”

“I only didn't mind because I didn't notice! You started kissing me in public to distract me from what you were doing!”

Michael giggles a little at Papa's flustered and embarrassed tone, and Janey smiles even while covering his mouth. Her heart is pounding though as she clutches the scarf about her neck. She really doesn't feel like getting into trouble again.

“Don't act like you didn't enjoy it.”

Sherlock mutters, to which John coughs in irritation and mutters something less than decent for young ears. The silence that stretches indicates to the children that their parents are being.... affectionate with each other, which makes Janey roll her eyes and Michael blush red.   
Finally, after what seems like an eternity of intimacy, John mumbles huskily

“We should find the kids....”

Sherlock claps his hands together and the two of them walk up the stairs hand in hand, John noticing the abandoned oatmeal in the kitchen and the shuffling from upstairs. He prepares for a long morning.  
His husband notices far more than he does.  
It feels strange even now calling him that in John's mind. Sherlock doesn't miss the slight scratch on the banister from Michael's fingernails-he liked to chip the wood.  
Or how the bathroom light has been left flickering and abandoned, as if someone had been brushing their teeth only for show until they had left that morning.  
Or most of all, how The Bugs Bunny And Tweety Show was running on the television and his youngest son wasn't glued to it like a hawk on a rabbit.

His eyes narrow and his nose crinkles in thought like it usually does, but both of them stop in utter shock as they are welcomed with the state of their bedroom. John's mouth falls open and his face turns greyer than his sweater, and even Sherlock raises an eyebrow in silent amusement.

Clothes lie everywhere, thrown haphazardly across the floor and bed and left discarded over the mirrors.   
The bed's cover is rumpled and the pillows have been stacked into a likeness of a snowman, complete with a hat and tie.   
There's calculations written with chalk on the hardwood, and Janey's hair ribbons have been abandoned off in the corner. All in all, it looks like a mess.  
Or, John notices, like Sherlock's office downstairs.

For a moment neither man speaks, just considers things for a moment. John attempts to make any noise from his mouth that is not a scream, and his husband fills the picture of what happened with his mind.  
Janey.  
Dress up.  
John's clothes?  
No, John's clothes were only scattered.  
His.  
Burned candles.  
An attempt to calm herself.  
It didn't work.  
The chalk calculation happened after.  
Then Sherlock crouches at the equation, pale eyes flicking towards the bed.  
“You got it wrong Janey. Carry the number, and the reciprocal will follow.”

“Is that all you've got to say?!” John splutters, wondering if he's angry or going to start laughing.  
“How about how she's completely torn apart my favourite shirt? Or how she's written on the walls!?”

His hands gesture to the damage, but he already sees that Sherlock isn't listening. He's watching his two children escape guiltily from their hiding places, and how Michael is preparing himself for a good cry in case he gets into trouble too.

The dark haired girl rises as gracefully as she can from her hiding spot, smoothing down the scarf calmly in front of her. She looks like a kitten on edge.  
“Of course I had to use your shirt. It was the only material thin enough to cut easily into strips so I could practice first aid on Timothy.”

She promptly reaches into the oversized coat that's not hers, revealing her bear who now looks more like a mummy than a fuzzy sleep toy.

John rubs at his eyes, like he can't believe anyone could be so destructive.

“Well it's not like I haven't ripped your clothes before...” Sherlock's mumble causes his ears to turn bright red, and the ex-soldier all but drags Michael from his hiding place behind his sister with a sort of coughing attack in his chest. His grey-white hair is a pale reminder of his son's golden curls, and Michael clings to his Papa the way a baby sloth might- tightly and around his neck. The similarity between the two is hard to miss as they straighten together and look at the mess, both with equal amounts of disgust and shock. Michael starts to cry, worrying about being punished for something he didn't do.

For a moment nobody speaks as everyone takes into account their position, Janey's proud but guilty smile, and Sherlock's twitching eyebrow. Then, the dark haired man sighs, flinging back his head and closing his eyes in consternation.

“I just realized I left some evidence under the bed.”

That's when Michael realizes that the red on his pajamas isn't part of the pattern, and is actually from a ziplock baggy that he had sat on in his rush to hide.  
His resounding wail does not put Janey's position in a good light as she distinctly hears her Papa mutter to Dad  
“One of you was hard enough to handle.....”

Sherlock's answering grin is identical to Janey's in almost every way. Pride. Guilt. Completely unremorseful.


	3. Pillar Of Salt Part 2

“I told you I never _meant _to emotionally scar Michael. I just wanted him to tell me if the scarf suited me.” Janey grumbles while sitting in time out in front of her Dad, stocking feet curled up so her knees brushed the edge of her chin and she could grip her toes. Her chin is set in a stubborn line of defiance as her pale blue eyes meet his and neither refused to look away.  
“Besides, _you _were the one who left evidence under the bed.”____

____Sherlock stared at his daughter and didn't respond, rubbing at his face tiredly before setting his hands under his chin in thought. Janey had become difficult lately to handle. His fingers drummed together at the tips as he thought of how lately her intelligence had seemed to jump-start, to become a raging fire as she craved knowledge and understanding of the world around her. With that came the beginning of an edge to his child he didn't like, and yet could relate to. Something John would never understand despite his years of being by the side of the man who had perfected that edge. The problem was that with that edge underlying it was still the perspective of a child.  
Not that John hadn't commented that Sherlock was really no better at times. _ _ _ _

______Still, he understood the kind of manic energy that seemed to consume her at moments, filling her with a desire to be something. To help.  
Even Michael had that desire, though he was milder in his ways. Though he also had the potential to be like Janey.  
Really, Sherlock wasn't so sure all the time if having kids with both his DNA and John's had been the best idea.  
The result was his intelligence, John's obsessiveness, and a streak of stubborn a mile wide._ _

____"John is furious you know."_ _ _ _

____Janey doesn't seem to particularily care one way or another. She's tilting her head back and trying to stare directly into the lamp light overhead. Blinding herself then regaining her vision as she looks down.  
Ignoring the situation._ _ _ _

_______He notices the way she bites at a lock of her hair while fidgeting, how she rocks on her heels. How her eyes are far larger and wiser than a child's should be.  
A mix of old and new.  
Sherlock is savagely reminded of a little boy he once knew.  
One who was far too smart for his own good and was tormented by a vicious father and an overbearing mother.  
One that had overdosed on cocaine at fifteen for the first time, left crying and trembling with no one to even notice if he was coming home._

_____She's also analyzing him, taking in the tired circles around his features, the fidgeting of his own hands, and the way he actively chews his lip, as if wanting desperately a cigarette.  
How his hands clench at a memory, turning white.  
This is supposed to be a punishment, but slowly, it turns into a staring match._ _ _

_____Janey wonders how someone's eyes can be so deep that _she _can't see through them.  
Strangely enough, Sherlock had once thought the same thing about another person, long ago. Except that person would not have gently tucked a child's lock of hair away from her face and murmured  
“No dinner tonight. Straight to bed. However, John _tends _to leave snacks out in the night.”_____ _ _

_________Her smile is impish as she knows that despite his coolness, despite his calm, she has her Dad totally and utterly under her control. She wraps her arms around his neck, dark hair flying back as she kisses his ear softly. After a moment of hesitation, her father responds to the hug with one of his own. His arms are warm, safe. They hold her like he's afraid to let go.  
A kind of protection Janey takes comfort in when she knows that her parents together can do anything.  
“I just... wanted to be like you and Papa.” Her whisper made Sherlock smile softly._ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Because he knows.  
Because he can feel his own heart pounding and wonders if hers isn't louder, even more energetic than his own._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I know.... and one day, I'll give you that scarf.... and you can bully Anderson with me.... and run with John.... when you're older... and less annoying... not that I can really say anything.... Until then...”  
He pushes her playfully up towards the stairs, unable to quite lower his usual mask of indifference. John had helped him over the years, taught him that children needed to be able to see under his surface. Though he wasn't perfect, he knew she could see. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Try not to drive John or your brother insane. I'm trying to convince him to let me get another chemistry set.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Janey's eyes are wicked as Mycroft's could be, they dance in the dim light of the kitchen.  
“I won't make any promises.” _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________ _ _ _ _ _ _

________*****************_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Michael, on the other hand, is not so happy with Janey's “punishment”.  
He pulls at his school uniform sulkily, first day of preschool seeming to have lost most of it's splendour with the news that Papa has just given him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“You mean Janey's not going to school today because she's _grounded? _”  
His dark brown eyes stared pointedly at Papa's face in front of him, who is busily avoiding his five year old son's glare as he kneels to button up the collar of his shirt. John tugs it firmly, teeth clenched as he remembers the quiet argument he and Sherlock had had a few hours before. ___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________"Sometimes Michael... your Dad is a git..."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He had used similar tones of disbelief when Sherlock proposed this punishment, tweaking the strings to his violin as he stared out the window. John had been sitting on the couch watching his dark curls turn lighter as the sun actually rose, typing away on his laptop about his latest adventures in raising children while balancing solving a murder case, when his husband suddenly stopped playing and spoke._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“That's it. I've got it.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________His green eyes flashed with speckles of blue as he turned, pacing a worn path along the floor. His hands were peaked under his chin in classic Sherlock thinking mode.  
John looked up from his laptop, eyebrows arching. He prepared himself for an outlandish theory that had nothing to do with anything, or perhaps a hypothesis as to why Michael wasn't getting any taller. (He was privately in suspicion that poor Michael would take after him rather than Sherlock on that point)_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Got what?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He watched the tall man as he passed through shadow and light, wondering not for the first time if Sherlock was talking about the case they were working on or their kids. Sometimes, he managed to confuse and mix the two together. Putting his laptop down and preparing to wring the answer out of him, John leaned forward.  
“About the Baker Case?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Of course not.” Sherlock snorts, as if the suggestion that he might be focusing on a simple small-town murder was an idea that was offensive to him- even comical.  
“Already solved that more or less a few hours ago. She was smuggling something to an anonymous corporation and had out-lived her usefulness. Probably a drug company, judging from the fact that her veins showed signs of heroin use. No John...”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He freezes, turning and crouching in front of his husband. He takes his hand and clenches it, knuckles blood-leached. He hasn't been sleeping well, despite John's insistence on rest. He's tempted to force him to lie down soon, but what he says distracts John._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Janey needs a mind-palace.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________His brown eyes looked at him skeptically, tone blank.  
“A.... mind palace.... You mean that thing you do where you blink a lot and close your eyes and pretend you're a super computer? You want our daughter to be like a machine-”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“No. I want her to be able to stop thinking when she wants to. To not become a machine like I did when I was younger.” His voice lowers, as does his eyebrows as they dip into a concentrated expression.  
“When you first met me, I was cold. Stubborn. Callous.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“ _Was? _” He splutters, laughing. Sherlock ignores the jibe and continues, remembering his childhood.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________It makes him uncomfortable, and John sees his shoulders tightening with unpleasant memories._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“It was because I was used to people not thinking. Not observing. Not understanding the things I saw and knew. I was cold because I was used to people telling me off, telling me to piss off and leave them alone. I wanted solitude because it meant I wouldn't suffer teasing." He swallows, looking away. John sees the mask of pain under his illusion of calm and feel a pull of protection._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________"My mind palace however allowed me to see that you were useful. That you could keep me grounded so I didn't disconnect completely into my own mind.” He could feel his throat close when he saw the tiny flicker of emotion behind Sherlock's cold. It was a look of gratitude that made him want to say something. Yet he let him continue._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Janey doesn't know how to find someone to ground her, because her thoughts are all over the place. She has no way to organize her mind, and it's driving her to search for a way.” He gestured to his scarf, which he had reclaimed.  
“She sees that I'm grounded, despite being brilliant. She sees your kindness, even though you don't understand her calculations or her tangents and argue with me all the time about my methods. Don't you see John-”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________He paused, taking his hand and blinking. John finished his sentence for him, because now, impossibly, he saw.  
“She's mimicking us. Trying to find out what makes us the way we are. Trying to find someone who she thinks _won't _leave her.”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Sherlock nods, and a rare smile crosses his lips.  
Which is why she needs to stay home from school. Alone. So she can realize she can silence her thoughts on her own. That we won't leave her, that we'll always come back.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________At the time, it had seemed like sound logic. Now though John sees too many flaws in the plan. Janey is chaotic at worse, disorganized at best. She frequently had been known to terrorize Mrs. Hudson when she babysat with her complete disregard for her own personal safety, and had made Sherlock not once but twice break out into a flat run to catch her as she slipped from balancing atop the balcony. (later on she explained patiently she was only trying to get a closerlook at the nest of a neighbouring blue jay) It was like Janey had no idea that whatever she touched, she set aflame.  
It made John want to have a heart attack at leaving their small house to her mercy._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Suddenly filled with gratitude he was the father of at least one sane child, he hugs Michael a little harder about the shoulders.  
“Don't worry about your sister. She just needs to.....learn how to relax.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Michael nods slowly, like this makes sense. He lifts up his wrists so his Papa can do up the buttons._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Then a sudden question fills John's mind, and he looks down at his son in surprise and can't help but blurt a question.  
“Do _you _have a mind-palace?”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Michael looks vaguely confused, his pale eyebrows lowering over his brown eyes.  
“Not a mind-palace..... Not a palace...”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“I mean-” John pauses, trying to find the right words.  
“A place of comfort... where everything you know is stored... organized...”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________He wonder if maybe the topic he's discussing is too metaphorical for a five year old. Still, Michael considers his question seriously, like he does with everything._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Then he smiles widely, understanding.  
“Oh! You mean my garden!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________And John, wondering just how much Michael hides behind his gentleness listens to his son launch on a tangent about an imaginary garden where the iron fences are so tall and so covered with vines even Janey can't enter. Where no one ever makes a mess._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	4. Pillar Of Salt~ Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is where things begin to pick up a little bit. Until now it's been mostly fluff. please tell me what you think and I'd appreciate some feedback! merci beaucoup!

After everyone has left, Janey lies in bed alone with a sigh in the dim.  
The light through her half-parted curtains shines in her eyes, blinding her and making it so she has to blink repeatedly. It's irritating.

Annoying.

_Boring. ___

__She rolls onto her side, dark hair splaying out behind her with static clinging to every strand. br / > Stupid Papa.  
Stupid for being angry at her all the time.  
Stupid Dad.  
Stupid for not telling her why she was here, instead of at school.  
She had interrogated him ruthlessly, but his only reply had been 

__"You'll figure it out."_ _

__Janey wonders to herself what could possibly be so important to figure out that she has to stay home from school.  
Not like school was interesting._ _

__Really the only reason she went at all is because Sherlock nor John had the time to home-school them, although they had considered it. She had few friends in her grade, and because of her small size more often than not she was chosen last for most sports. The only time she was wanted really was right before a test._ _

__She had only wanted...._ _

__Her thoughts trail off as she blinks, considering.  
What _had _she wanted?___ _

____It's startling for her to realize that she's not entirely sure._ _ _ _

____She wanted an image. At least, she thought she did._ _ _ _

____Something to hold onto and call her own. Yet, she also wanted everything else. Not just one thing. She wanted a name that meant the expanse of information that whirled in her mind, that accurately described her erratic behaviour._ _ _ _

____She wanted to feel heard in a silence too deep._ _ _ _

____The only word she could think up of was insanity, if she were to describe her feelings._ _ _ _

____It was too bad the Holmes name was already claimed by her Dad._ _ _ _

______Though Papa is unaware that Janey knows about their infamy, Sherlock had been known to secretly encourage her digging into her family tree.  
Whenever Papa was away, Dad would conveniently leave about old cases that they had already solved, and Janey had more than once spent long hours in her favourite rocker by the fire pouring excitedly over perilous missions and puzzles.  
It was like a huge maze-work of murders and thievery that she worked at viciously to solve before she read to the end. So far she had read twenty all told, and solved thirteen before her Papa had realized what Dad had seen from the start. 

____She knows private things about Uncle Mycroft, and how Papa was once a medical doctor at war.  
She knows about her Dad's old drug habits, though when he began and when he stopped was a little more murky. _ _ _ _

_______There was still a huge gap though in time. All of the cases lead up to one huge empty space, and Janey has begun to realize that her Dad is keeping a secret._  
The thought makes her want to tear apart his office in search for it.  
Around ten years ago.  
Ten long years.... 

____There were a few stories though that she truly marvelled at the name Sherlock, and imagined the chill it sent down all evil's spine.  
She remembers in particular one case, that her Papa somewhat creatively called _ _ _ _

_____The Hound Of The Baskervilles. ____ _ _ _

______How it had driven her to distraction! Her homework had gotten done, but for the first time she hadn't handed it in on time because she had been so absorbed in solving it.  
The dingy blankets of her bed had stayed looking slept-in for a week because she had spent all of her free time refusing to read any further and thinking until she solved it._ _ _ _ _ _

______She had skipped meals, and even skipped sleeping._ _ _ _ _ _

______A smile crosses her face.  
Dad had been working on a particularly interesting and difficult case then. He had come and lied down right beside her one evening, thinking about his own puzzle._ _ _ _ _ _

______Of course, he is always the first to mutter_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Aha!”_ _ _ _ _ _

______The frown returns to her face, this time even more darkly. She has to become better at this!  
At not letting her thoughts wander...._ _ _ _ _ _

______She is supposed to be reflecting, but it's turning more into a time for meaningless memories._ _ _ _ _ _

______Sitting up suddenly, she crosses the floor of her bedroom in three big strides. The walls are a light dusky sort of blue, and there's an odd mix of childlike picture books as well as texts and tomes that most grown men wouldn't read. She reaches for one of the heavier ones, opening it to reveal several pages of loopy script. It had been a gift her uncle Mycroft had given her._ _ _ _ _ _

______A complete collection of all the animals on the Earth. Descriptions fill her mind as she cracks the spine open, images of multicoloured feathers and deeply blinking slitted eyes.  
For a moment she focuses, determined to stay interested in a single thing for more than a minute._ _ _ _ _ _

______She thinks it might work for a second._ _ _ _ _ _

______It only lasts for so long though and then she's bored again, throwing the book across the room in frustration and flopping sideways on the bed. No good.  
A bit not good._ _ _ _ _ _

_______Damn. ____ _ _ _ _ _

________How did her Dad _function _so well like this?___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________She knows the answer is Papa. Instinct tells her that Dad at one time was just like this._  
Unable to control himself.  
Unable to stop.  
Unable to care. 

__________She didn't have anyone like Papa though. Nothing kept her in place. Nothing held her to the spot.  
She didn't _let _anything hold her.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________What would her Dad do in a time like this?  
She thinks for a moment as she stares at the yellow-white ceiling, then gets up and bounds downstairs. The living room is still half-dismantled from the argument her Dad and Papa had a while ago, it lies abandoned with scattered blankets and half-eaten toast looking like charming decorations.  
Lonely._ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________She goes to the solitary black piano in the corner, running her fingers lovingly over the polished black cover that shields the keys. While she's actually hopeless at the violin and even Michael can sing better than her, there's one musical thing that Janey can do well._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Better than anyone else in her family._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Sitting herself on the bench, she exposes the ivory-white keys and rests her hands gently for a moment against middle C. She feels the instruments need to play, to create.  
She hears it's whisper of a tune._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Then, taking a deep breath, she closes her eyes and begins to play._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________It comes to her haltingly at first, but then the notes begin to flow effortlessly together, trembling in the air like living wings beating downwards to push off into the sky. Her fingers dance over the keys and for once Janey feels at peace with herself as she presses down on the pedals. There's a certain rhythm, a certain sound that when she gets it just right all of her thoughts stop. It's relieving, so relieving she wants to cry.  
She doesn't though, because it's not her._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________Instead she lets the piano cry for her.  
Sing for her.  
Dance._ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________She doesn't notice how her fingers are moving on their own, or how she's stared at one fixed spot for more than a moment.  
All she feels is comfort.  
This is her home.  
This is where she's meant to be, somehow._ _

____________All too soon though, the song must come to an end. The drifting notes fizzle and fade into nothing, and the thoughts creep back again. She growls lowly in her throat and wishes she could play forever._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________It's like that story in the Bible, the one she had read the day she decided she didn't believe in God._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________When she doubted her thoughts, she became a pillar of salt. Easily breakable._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Easily destroyed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________The sound of the piano cover slamming back down on the keys is audible in the quiet.  
For a moment, she considers breaking something._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________She wants the image of music to stay in her mind._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________Then it comes to her.  
Music.  
A music room._ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Turning so the chair rattles with her movements like an arthritic old man, she sits herself down in the tight corner between the piano and the couch and closes her eyes, concentrating. Her hands make a steeple by her lips and her fingertips twitch with tension._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________Stay calm.  
Breathe.  
Think.  
Think of the music._ _

____________Her fingers tap the polished wood floor rhythmically, sounding out the keys in her head. Organize it, keep it clean sounding.  
Her thoughts soon began to follow suit._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______________________That's it, slower, calmer._  
Things begin to straighten themselves, her music room lulling everything into a sense of peace.  
There'sno more hectic thoughts.  
No more craving to know things.  
No tiny little voice of rage that tells her she doesn't deserve to live here. 

_______________________And that's really what it's been all about all along._  
The feeling of utter inadequacy she feels whenever her thoughts slow down.  
The truth is, Janey Holmes is worried.  
Worried that her parents find her too stressful.  
Worried that one day, she will break like a fragile doll.  
Worry and worry upon worry. 

____________This is why her Dad had made her stay home._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________So she can hear the silence of the house, and feel her solitude and realize._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________She had no reason to be afraid.  
She never has.  
Because staring right in front of her is the obvious, which oddly enough she had missed when she was so focused on the details._ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________Her family loves her.  
Yet love has never before come to play in her mind when she imagines irrational scenarios. Boarding school.  
Adoption.  
Michael in these scenarios always waved as she is dragged away._ _

____________Papa always looks disappointed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Now she realizes that he would be more likely to cry._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______________________She had only thought Dad might cry._  
In truth, her relationship with her Papa was not often a smooth one.  
They fought a lot, and were responsible for more arguing than Sherlock and John themselves. Janey would do something, and Papa would treat her like a child.  
It was infuriating.  
Michael didn't mind it. He liked to be treated his age. 

____________However it just makes Janey itch and want to bury herself deeper in danger in the hopes that one day Papa will see she's not a baby._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Now she knows as she opens her eyes that Papa never intended to treat her like a prisoner of war or like an infant.  
He has seen Dad reach the end of his rope before when they weren't together._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________It has left behind a lasting scar that makes John Watson afraid of losing his daughter._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Though that thought is bitter, she can't help it._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________She smiles, knowing now that fear is sometimes an irrational expression of love._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________Closing her eyes, she promises to herself to apologize, somehow.  
Even though it hurts her pride like a thousand wasp stings.  
She will apologize.  
Or at least make supper for her family without being told to._ _

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________The music plays on in her mind until a knock at the door lets it disperse._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________When she stands and looks at the mantel, Janey realizes it is already two o'clock in the afternoon.  
The postman maybe?  
But why so late?_ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Getting to her feet, she notices with distaste she is still in a nightgown. She throws on a winter coat to ward of the England chill as she stands on tiptoe, peers in the peep hole and frowning.  
Nothing greets her but a brown paper package lying on the front step._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________Abandoned.  
Suspicious.  
She half debates calling Papa and asking if he ordered anything, but then she stops herself.  
If she wants to be more grown up in her Papa's eyes, she as to prove she can handle things._ _

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Turning the door handle, she spares on last look at the piano.  
Then after a moment she steps outside, crouching to pick up the box. She reads that there's no return address-_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________and then everything happens faster than she can comprehend._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Hands grab her like vices about her shoulders before she can even breathe let alone scream, pressing the cool cloth to her mouth. She kicks as she's lifted into the air instinctively, reaching as the person drives her to her knees, dragging her back inside her house.  
Her nails claw the floor, leaving long scratch marks as the stranger she can't see slams the door shut to her own home. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Red fills her mind as Janey fights and a depserate thought fills her mind._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________Dad help! ____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________But neither of her parents are here. Her chest begins to pound even as that weight settles in her stomach._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________She can't breathe._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________She _won't. _____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________She refuses because she knows what will happen._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Her mind burns as viciously she aims an upper cut at the man's head and hits home, once._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________There's an angry grunt as a fist strikes out, landing on her cheek. The entire left side of her face immediately feels like it's been attacked by a frying pan._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Then she gasps, breathes in the chemicals, and slowly everything goes dark as her body goes limp in the stranger's arms._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	5. Chapter Two~ The Guilt Behind Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> second chapter :) whohooo! and a hundred and two views so far :3 it makes me happy that over the course of really two days I broke the hundred barrier. XD  
> What I'd really appreciate is some feedback! So without further a do, here we go!

 

       John wonders frustratedly for the hundredth time why he didn't just leave Michael at the gate to his kindergarten class, instead of walking in and running into his new teacher Miss Oats.

Or rather, why he didn't have Sherlock take him.

It seems no matter how hard he tries, strangers are always willing to talk to him. It's an infuriating habit that only Sherlock can seem to dispel. His perpetual iciness and calculated glares usually kept even the most insistent person at bay. John often finds himself flocked with people just willing to talk to him. In some cases it's a good thing-    

It means Sherlock is forced to interact with others. Without him John is sure he'd spend all day in his room, doing research.

However now there is no help for it now as he tries to extricate himself out of this situation.

 

He can smell Miss Oats' heavy lilac perfume as she gushes over his son, crouching on the pavement and introducing herself in an overly delighted tone. Most adults use this tone with Michael, and though it is unnecessary because he has the functioning mind of a fourth grader at five years old, he accepts it with weary patience.

 

“Well hello there! What's your name? I'm Miss Oats and I'll be your teacher this year. Isn't that exciting?”

 

Michael looks less than impressed but dutifully keeps his mouth shut, even while trying to pry his Papa's fingers free from his shirt collar so he can make a hasty escape onto the playground. However John in a rare moment of spite is determined that if he has to suffer with introductions, so does his five year old boy.

Miss Oats' blonde hair is tuck haphazardly behind one shoulder as she coos over him. With her freckled face so close, Michael can taste the peppermint gum she chews on her breath.

 

“What an adorable young lad! A little shy today, is he?”

 

John suppresses a small smile, not sure if Michael's silence isn't from shyness so much as irritation.

He can see Sherlock in that pout he presents darkly, and a little bit of himself in the way he murmurs

"Hullo."

He interjects for his son to save him from the woman's overbearing presence.

 

“This is Michael Holmes-Watson. I'm his father, John.”

He hopes his tone is warm enough, though he knows that his husband would have seen right through it.

 

Miss Oats presses a very clean, very pale hand against his own, her smile wide. She apparently is not as good at reading people.

“Pleasure is mine. It's not often I get to meet a small-town celebrity.”

 

She winks, and John can't help the slow flush that crawls to his cheeks. It still gets some getting used to-

being in the papers not only as the sidekick to the infamous Sherlock Holmes, but being associated with him as a _husband._

That word that Sherlock never hesitates to use.

Marriage. Though there had never been any rings, it's what they were. John had long since given up on his knee-jerk reaction to their coupling, and his once loud response of 

_I'm not gay._

dies in his throat.

There really is no use after all.

There are nights where he still worries, wonders if the tall man with haunting blue eyes might disappear again. That thought still frightens him, makes him want to vomit because of the level of anxiety it poses.

It's almost as bad as his dreams about the war.

These unwanted reminders are what comes to him whenever someone says husband. It is really no wonder why his response is rather strained.

 He pulls himself out of his lost feelings as Miss Oats continues onwards, ignoring the fact that he's obviously not been listening to a word she says. Her tone is light and airy, for the things that she speaks of.

 

“The hounds of Baskerville kept me shivering in anticipation, and my cousin loved the one about the poisoned pills! I can't even simply _tell_ you how much I loved the Reichenbach story, so many twisting plots and theories! And I absolutely bawled when your husband-”

 

She cuts off, seeming to notice John's pain for the first time. Michael has stopped struggling, and now he grips his Papa's hand once and squeezes, silently willing away the haunted expression John hides. It still hurts. He can't stop the feeling that it brings every time someone mentions that time.

Because the truth was, Sherlock had only ever apologized to him once.

The sight of that memory is what _really_ haunts the soldier.

Michael watches him with worried brown eyes, hoping the numbness will leave his Papa's face.

 

Curtly he says goodbye to his son and Miss Oats and walks back to his car, shoulders hunched against the wind. From the chain-link fence the young boy looks on, fists clenching tightly.

 

John doesn't see how the young woman opens her mouth as if to apologize to his back, or how Michael unexpectedly reaches out and touches her sleeve to stop her. He shakes his blonde curls and smiles up at her, voice as calm as an adult's. Under it though she senses a deep anger.

 

“Don't. He wants to be alone. Papa doesn't like it when others worry about him.”

 

The teacher stares at her new student who is wise beyond his years, watching the adult fade from him as he lets go of her hand and runs towards the monkey bars.

His laugh is childlike, but the look he gives her of mistrust and secrecy over letting her into his complex little mind is not.

 

John is less than okay as he starts up the engine to his Ford, listening to the motor run to life and hum beneath his fingertips. He considers calling in sick at his job and finding Sherlock, but a greater part of him says he's being foolish and cowardly.

_Don't let it get to you. She didn't know._

_She has no right to know our lives._

 

 Still he opens his phone, smiling a little at the fact that his husband has already messaged him. It brightens his mood and helps his nerves settle down, even if Sherlock is being unhelpful.

 

**_Bored. -SH_ **

 

**_John pick up I'm bored.- SH_ **

 

**_Anderson is an idiot.-SH_ **

**_Scratch that. Anderson is an idiot with a POLICE AUTHORITY. -SH_ **

 

The meaningless texts cause John to laugh over nothing, assuaging his fears so they were just trickling somewhere deep in his consciousness. He's gotten better at calming himself down. There was a time when even awake all he could see was that person spreading his arms out to his sides, falling forward faster and faster.

The nightmares still come to him every once in a while. Waking him, forcing him to keep his teeth clenched from screaming the name that lies stuck in his throat.

 

_Sherlock!_

The cry he screamed every night when his husband had vanished. What he sometimes whispered in the depth of his fear.

 

On those nights, he has to realize very quickly that he's back in his house, safe under covers, Sherlock lying beside him. He clenches the blankets and runs a hand through his hair and hopes he hasn't woken his husband up. He also knows Sherlock is usually already awake.

Still, he pretends to be asleep so John saves what little pride he has left.

 

Most of the time, anyway.

If his cries are too loud he will place a silent hand on his shoulder and hold him, comforting him in the knowledge that it's all a dream.

That he _came back._

and he'd apologize by burying his face against John's neck and inhaling and refusing to let him ago until he fell back asleep.

 

 

John though doesn't mistake this for just a purely one-sided thing though

After all there are times when John is sure Sherlock is awake because he fears nightmares of his own. Though he'd sooner have Lestrade as a therapist than admit his own panicked dreams

Sherlocki isn't supposed to fear things.

 

He was Sherlock Holmes.

So John does enough worrying and has enough fears for the both of them.

 

As he pulls out of the parking-lot and drives down the road, his fingers drum against the steering wheel. In a last-minute decision he texts the hospital and tells them he isn't feeling well, but instead of driving home pulls over at the side of the road and rubs at his tired face. He shouldn't be driving like this. He'll wait until he's okay.

 

He's not sure how long he stays that way, or if he even remembers fading off to sleep. John's head hits the dashboard as he fades out, entering a dream he wishes he could erase.

 

_It's the wind._

_He knows that icy cold and how it bites into his jacket._

_Knows how this story is going to play out._

_He's running._

_Faster and faster._

 

“ _Sherlock!”_

 

_He sees the people crowding around the body, sees the red pooling around his head. He pushes through them, and unlike what really happened that day they let him through. Nothing stops him, but he's still too late._

_He stares at the limp, pale body. Crumpled. Folded like a paper ball thrown away._

_Damaged._

_Dark coat._

_Dark blood._

 

_His fingers shake as he pushes aside the dark curls, whispering his name._

_Pleading._

_Begging him to be alive._

“ _Sherlock?”_

 

_Suddenly, he's not holding him any more, but her._

 

_Janey lies in his arms, in Sherlock's black coat that's much too big for her. The scarf around her neck is stained red with her blood as her dark hair like a fan covers one half of her face._

_John screams, and then Sherlock is pulling him away from her body. Keeping him away, his own voice ragged with emotion._

 

“ _John! John stop this! She's dead! John!”_

 

_His arms like vices hold John in place, but he cannot not hide the sight of their daughter, lying still on the pavement. One blue eye stares at him emptily, almost begging him a question._

 

_Why?_

_Why did you let me fall?_

_and from ahead comes a high cruel laugh that makes John moan and clap his hands over his ears as he sobs._

 

************

 

When John wakes up, he has to cover his mouth and bite down to keep from shrieking.

For a moment all he can do is grip the steering wheel and take deep, gasping breaths.

He's alive.

He's in a car.

"Fuck!" 

His murmur is harsh in the quiet of the afternoon.

 

Where had that _come_ from?

_What the hell-_

 

Fumbling for the top of his collar, he undoes a button and forces himself to stay calm.

His dreams were not usually so vivid.

They did not usually make him tremble like he did in Afghanistan the day he found out he would be on the front lines.

Taking a deep breath, he convinces himself that it was just a dream.

Just a result of his recent arguments with his daughter and his stress levels.

Nothing to worry about.

Letting his head lie back on the headrest, he closes his tired eyes.

Dead.

He was absolutely _dead_ with exhaustion.

He should go straight home.

 

 

Without thinking, he reaches out and checks his phone. There's a new message. At first, he expects it to be from Sherlock. Flipping the screen open casually, he frowns at an unidentifiable number.

The text is simple, but when he opens it the phone drops from his hands like it's on fire. He can't speak, can't breathe because if he does John knows he'll start to shout. 

If he starts to shout, people on the street will notice.

 

Picking up his phone with shaking fingers, he calls the one person on his speedial.

After a moment, Sherlock picks up.

 

“John?”

 

“Sherlock. Get home. Get home now!”

 

Pulling the stick shift back so his car squeals in protest, John cradles the phone against his ear.

Sherlock wastes no time.

“I'm on it.”

 

The dull sound of the dial tone sends a feeling of dread through John's spine. Swerving through traffic, he dares to look at the text one more time. It sends a sickness through him, one so poignant he has to grip the wheel to keep from spinning out of control.

It's an image.

Janey lies as if asleep on her bed, her dark hair splayed about her face as if she's a porcelain doll. However, John can see the red staining her forehead, and the note on the bottom of the message.

 

_There was a little girl who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead,_

_and when she was good she was very, **very** good._

_But when she was bad......_

**_She was horrid._ **

 

His heart is already beginning to feel a painful warmth right between his shoulder blades. 

John has known this fear before, and it calls him now with a desperation that makes him close his eyes briefly and whimper, clutching at his stomach.

 

“Not again. _Please_ , not again.”

 

However if there is any deity above it doesn't appear to want to listen to him as Sherlock texts him.

It's a simple message, but it stops his breathing.

His husband has gotten home. It's two words. Clipped. Curt.

Scared under a pretence of calm.

 

_John. Hurry home.-SH_

 

The sound of the accelerator speeding up is John's only response to such a command.


	6. The Guilt Behind Secrets part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo as some of you may have noticed I've changed some of the tags and summary. This is because I wasn't very clear because I wanted it to be a secret until I had to reveal it, but this story had elements of crossovers. :P You won't see any at the moment, but very soon things will become clearer as the chapters go on. It's a mystery, see if you can guess! As always, comments are welcome...

When Sherlock gets the call from John he's in the middle of an investigation. His fingers are stained bright red as without fear or trepidation he pulls apart the pieces of a crime scene, inspecting the ground like a houndog. His thoughts scatter and pour over the evidence as usual with his same amount of cool calculation, eyes flicking everywhere and yet nowhere at once. Deep in thought.

_Mud._

_Footprints._

_A pair of adult shoes._

_Too big to be female._

_Male._

_Mid thirties in all probability._

_A limp._

_No._

_Battle wound._

_Soldier?_

_Possible._

 

The notion becomes more likely as he approaches the body of the victim, lying face-down on the conrete.

He sees the body of the small child. Strangulation marks wring his neck. Sherlock's eyes rove over the ripped and torn white shirt and pants that adorn him, noticing he had no jacket when he died. Yet he didn't die from cold. Neither did strangulation kill him, or his lips would be bluer.

_From a belt, not hands._

_No fingerprints._

_Meaning probably military._

_Or at least military-type training._

The boy is about eleven, maybe ten.

Wide green eyes stare blankly up at the sky and Sherlock sees he's missing a baby tooth.

_One of his last._

There's bruises all over the boy's arms and legs.

Beatings. Some old and some very recent. 

_He had fought._

_But he wasn't strong enough._

 

Sherlock closes his eyes as the story plays out for him, like a television he's unable to turn off.

_He manages to drag himself slightly over to the dumpster before he died to protect himself from the bitter wind. The boy's breathing is harsh, and every intake burns from being almost choked to death. His hands tremble, then a shadow looms behind him._

 

Half-crouched on the ground, the detective sees the boy's last moments were ones of agony and despair.

It doesn't affect him, he's in his Mind-Palace.

 

Blinking, he comes back to reality to hear Lestrade coming up behind him. He hears the heavy footsteps that can only mean a long day.

The man is tired, forced to work three extra shifts this week.

His breath is tense with coffee and a little bit of alcohol from last night as he leans down to Sherlock's level.

Though his tongue has softened over the years, Lestrade still fears upsetting the quiet man that is before him, and is wary of the level of abuse Sherlock could haul on somebody for asking stupid questions.

Sometimes it's a wonder he's so gentle around his children.

“What do you see?”

“The question is more like, what do _you_ not see?”

Sherlock points one gloved hand at the drag marks on the pavement, reciting quickly what he's learned.

“The boy's been missing for about two months now, judging from his clothes and appearance. The man who kidnapped him had decided he had outlived his purpose, whatever it may be. No signs of any sexual damage, although there's a burn right by his stomach. The boy was still alive when dragged to this alley. His hands were tied, but he fought. He knew what was going to happen.”

Then the dark-curled man frowns, touching what seems to be blackened marks about the boy.

“Some sort of small explosion it looks like... probably how the boy wound up so bruised and burned in the first place. It was unintentional, the man escaped but with a limp. The boy survived.... but not for long. Interesting.”

The way he says that word makes Lestrade shiver a little as he hastily takes down notes, his loopy scrawl shaking slightly from his nerves.

“Wouldn't the locals report an explosion though? It would have had to have made a sound of some sort.”

Sherlock shakes his head, closing his eyes.

“No. _idiot._ This is a poorer street, judging from the pipes on the walls and the state of the homes. Most likely they thought it was gunfire over a robbery or gang fight.”

He rubs is hands together gleefully, seeing it like a video in his mind.

“It was late at night. The neighbours were too frightened to go outside and see. The flash of light unnerved them, and nobody called because nobody cared.”

There's a small, shocked beat. Then

“Jesus Sherlock.” The DI mutters under his breath

“I know you're a little morbid but...”

_Scared. The boy died alone._

Some of the excitement dies in his eyes. The tall man hunches forward.

Lestrade watches with unreadable eyes as slowly, Sherlock reaches out, using a hand to cover the boy's eyes.

It doesn't really surprise the officer like it might have a few years ago. Since meeting John Sherlock's been a lot more open in showing signs of emotion.

Though most of the time, he was still an ass.

“Take him to the morgue.” He instructs quietly, eyes a brilliant shade of green.

“Have Molly look him over for further evidence.”

Lestrade nods tersely, barking out order as a body bag is prepared. Sherlock stands and turns, frowning into the distance. He knows he's missing a piece.

_Why was there an explosion?_

_What chemicals?_

_How was the boy involved?_

Shaking his head, he thinks about texting John just as his phone rings.

Picking it up he's prepared to hear a lecture about how he had in some way been offensive to someone somewhere. He doesn't expect to hear the crack in John's voice. Doesn't expect the hard clenching knot that forms in his chest at the sound of his husband's tone.

“Sherlock. Get home. Get home now!”

Ice fills him as he stands stock still, mentally calculating everything. His fists clench at his side and around the phone as he answers. His voice is as hard as a stone.

“I'm on it.” He doesn't bother to tell Anderson where he's going, just silences his angry protests with a look.

Lestrade would figure it out.

Hopefully.

Getting into his car he presses down on the pedals, the smell of petrol filling his nose as he swerves widely into the middle of the street. Several people scowl at his driving skills-

He had never been very good at staying in a straight line.

Right now he doesn't particularly care.

The only thought in his mind is John's voice on the phone. He sounded..... _broken_.

He is reminded painfully of the day he “came back from the dead”. John had sounded broken then too.

Angry.

 

Shattered. A small voice in his head whispers that something is very, **_very_** wrong.

Entering into his mind, he finds the thread he wants and touches it.

_Janey._

_Destroyed the house again?_

_No._

_John would be angry._

_Not scared._

_Janey **hurt.**_

 

For a moment, his thoughts go dead and blank as pain ripples within him.

 

_No._

That would make no sense.

John would be better suited to dealing with injuries.

The next thought is worse.

_Missing._

Sherlock's hands tighten so hard around the wheel he hears it creak, and his murmur is vicious as he wonders aloud.

“A game? One of her experiments?”

_No._

Because he knows Janey always tells him about her experiments. She likes doing them with him, likes to have an assistant or in most cases a teacher as she tests things.

Not a game either.

This is far too real to be just a game.

His suspicions become fact as he pulls into the driveway, and for once Sherlock wishes in vain he's wrong. The door has distinct scratches cutting through the paint.

_Fingernails._

He thinks about how Janey proudly showed him the colour of nail-polish she had bought the other day. Scraps of the pale blue tone lie imprinted in the marks.

When he tries the lock, it swings open with ease.

Stepping forward, Sherlock finds himself momentarily unprepared for the sight before him.

Scratches are everywhere.

Like a feral cat's they are obvious and long, curving. From the drag-pattern Sherlock can see his daughter was brought upstairs, probably by her ankles.

That's all he can deduce for a second as he sees the bloodstain on the floor. A fire swells then, deep in his stomach that Sherlock can't place nor can he control. Before he knows what he's doing he kicks a wall- hard enough to hear the plaster crack.

Then he's pulling at his hair, and swearing, and he sees everything.

 _Kidnap_.

_Janey fought._

_She almost won too._

A moment of cruel pride fills him before he continues, unable to stop himself from seeing.

 _Kidnapper twice her size_.

_Male._

_Knocked her out somehow._

_Chloroform?_

_Yes._

_Pain?_

With a note of dark relief, he knows the blood is only minimal.

_Less pain._

_Alive._

_At least when they left._

 

He refuses to let that thought trail continue.

He kills it himself before it can.

Sherlock, taking off his coat, texts John a single message.

 

_**J** _ _**ohn. Hurry home- SH** _

 

When John finds Sherlock, his husband can't hear him. He's too far gone in his thoughts, too far lost in his mind. John sees his entire figure is coiled into a tightly wound spring, one that refuses to come undone.

Numbly, he calls a single number then sits down beside him, unable to keep from leaning on his shoulder. Sherlock reacts only minimally, but clasps John's hand so tightly that both of their knuckles flush.

John is cold.

Distant.

Unable to think.

Sherlock can't _stop_ thinking.

Worse, what he does think about is the day Janey was first brought to their house, back then still Baker Street.

Mycroft brought the crying bundle. He had murmured something that Sherlock now cannot stop replaying in his head.

_“Why you need another weakness is beyond me. One day your heart will belong to everyone but yourself brother.”_

The look in his eyes back then had been unreadable as always.

Sherlock strains to remember more details about his brother that night, but instead all he sees his soft, chubby hands.

Blue-green eyes staring up at him.

A wail high enough to split paint.

And a smile as radiant as a moonlight night.

 

When his older brother finally comes around with his men, crouching before Sherlock, he can't hear what he's saying. He can only stare blankly into Mycroft's eyes and realize that on his brother's face is more than just worry over his niece. He knows he is helping John to his feet.

Knows that he's collecting evidence because at the moment, Sherlock cannot.

Instead he stares deeply into his brother's eyes, and silently demands to know what happened.

In those irises....

There's a terrible guilt.

Guilt and....

_Fear._

The question is, guilt over what?

What can make Mycroft be so afraid that when he pats Sherlock's shoulder, his hands shake?


	7. Chapter 3~ EASTSTAR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is where the crossovers begin. in fact, there's one in this chapter if you pay attention XP again, comments always welcome and constuctive criticism. PLEASE let me know because I really do want to improve if I can or edit any writing flaws :3 merci! and here we go!

 

It's dark.

So dark that for a single, fleeting moment Janey suspects with no small amount of disgust with herself that she's gone and died. 

It certainly feels that way. She's lying face-down, her face smushed against a cold carpeted surface. Her dark hair is tangled and it gets in her face as she struggles to wake up.

Then She feels the stinging in her wrists, bound tightly behind her, and tastes the iron flavour of blood in her mouth and is forced to recall what happened. Opening her mouth to curse loudly, it comes as little surprise to discover she can't.

Someone's put duct tape over her lips, sealing them shut and making a hot sweaty ring just under her nose. Everything comes thick and slow as molasses as she tries to think, and she wonders if she's not concussed. She runs her tongue slowly over the roof of her mouth as she sits up, taking into account the low humming beneath her legs. 

She's inside some kind of automobile. 

_What in the-_

 

That's when her mind catches up with her situation and everything becomes clear.

She sits up abruptly, sharp gasps through her nose as she takes in the fact that she's in the trunk of a large truck.

 

_Silver._

_There's some chipped paint._

_Expensive lining._

_Not some simple van._

_Square walls._

_Closing in._

_Cold._

_Freezing._

_Noise._

_Panic._

_She's going to die._

_Where's dad?_

 

_Oh god-_

 

Her head pounds as she screams loudly in the silence, kicking out at the back of the headlights. It just sends a jarring pain through her shins, making her buckle over and clench her fists.

No.

 This is bad.

 

_Bad._

 

Irrationally, her first thought is

 

_I'm already in trouble. I don't need more!_

 

Like a rolled carpet there's a bump in the road and she's sent sprawling, head hitting the metal corner of the lock painfully and sending stars into her eyes.

 

Janey knows her thoughts are spinning out of control, but she can't help it as she realizes the full extent of her situation. Her breaths become shallow and dizzy and for a moment, she thinks she might faint like the little girl she is. She can see her breath outlined in the dark, and it further blurs her clarity. 

She cannot.

She has to stay awake.

That's the first rule her Papa pressed on her, sitting her down as a toddler and sternly explaining how to survive in uncertain situations.

 

Then the iron Holmes' will comes over her, and she forces herself to stop. Her heart still pounding inside her rib-cage, she closes her eyes and imagines the piano again. She takes a step forward into her music room, expanding it carefully so that it now has a chair. Sitting in it, She listens in her mind for the song she needs to remember the events leading up to her kidnap.

Instead all she hears is the sharp screech of her father's violin when he's in a mood.

Pictures their faces as they realize her bed is empty and the floor is bloody.

 

It drives her panic right back into overload.

 

Somehow, she manages to deduce that whoever has taken her, it's to get to her parents. That thought levels some of her fear as she calms down again.

Her heart presses into her ribcage as she follows the trail of thought, expanding.

Yes.

A kidnap.

Or a ransom.

In which case she shouldn't worry too much much about being killed right away.

The grim prospect of torture for a moment flashes in her mind, but she discards that thought for her own sanity.

 

In the darkness, she can picture her Dad's face when he sees the scratch marks on the floorboards. Picture Papa's anger as he tears apart the house looking for any type of clue to her whereabouts.

Cold and alone, it's these thoughts that make her shoulders un-tense, though her eyes are still narrowed.

Though there's no song that will stop her fear completely, she now can picture Dad playing one of his favourite pieces.

Moonlight Sonata.

It causes her vision to blur with choked back tears that she refuses to release.

 

Checking her bonds, Janey sees that they're done in military fashion.

Tight.

Inescapable.

Whoever this was, they must be either very, _very_ good.

Or very, _very_ stupid.

 

The acknowledgement that there is nothign she can do at the moment is at once nauseating as it is relieving. With the silence of her thoughts, Janey comes to terms with the fact that she's alone, and on her own at least for a while.

All there is to do...

is wait for the car to stop.

 

Lying down, she listens to the silence and wonders vaguely if these people will kill her in her sleep.

Deciding it's not likely, her eyes slide close. The last thing she feels is the deep inner rolling of her stomach that she only gets when she's afraid.

She never got to tell Papa she was sorry for being a pain.

 

Janey refuses to let her thoughts think the unthinkable.

That she might never get the chance.

 

**********

 

When she is woken again it's by the sound of the engine cutting sharply. Eyes wide in the silence, Janey has barely enough time to sit up before the trunk opens and rough hands grab her about the shoulders, pulling at her nightgown and causing her already bruised head to thump in protest. Again her fighting spirit is renewed, kicking and screaming under the duct-tape even as her eyes take in as much as she can.

_Men._

_Four of them._

_Middle-age to young adult._

_Ex-military, there's the smell of gun-oil on them._

_Can't fight them._

_Too many._

_Too small._

 

It's an abandoned warehouse. The concrete floor is clean but icy as they set her down forcefully. 

Then, too soon, one man with dark eyes and a cartilage piercing blindfolds her. The thick black cloth cuts out all light, and she's shoved in the darkness to some unknown destination. 

Like a horse she's forced to follow, and her protests are met with vicious retaliation.

Every time she slows down, the butt of a rifle kicks at her shins. Sweat sticks to her brow as her mind works furiously.

 

_Not good._

_Can't see where they're taking me._

_But I can **hear.**_

 

She rocks on her heels as the men shout at each other, barking orders. They treat her like she's little more than a package, which is to her advantage as they don't bother being secretive.

 

“-Small tyke ain't she? Pretty though-”

 

There's a leering feeling right by her ear, and she has to inhale sharply to keep from lashing out. The sour smell of the man's breath makes the back of her neck prickle.

 

Another voice replies, tone dull and bored. It's raspy, and Janey guesses he's an ex-smoker. They're somewhere ahead of her.

 

“Cut it _out_ Malvolio. The boss wants this one in one piece. She's part of the central experiment.”

 

There's a low huff, and Janey is struck hard enough with the rifle that she stumbles. That earns another shove.

 

“'Twould help if someone actually _told_ us why they need all these brats down in sector C.”

 

The third man mutters in a lazy drawl. His accent is decidedly Scottish, but it has become muddled because he had been staying in London for a few years. Janey listens tightly, noting how when he walks there was a limp in his gait. She stores this  away for possible use, hastily making another "room" in her mind for survival skills while being held hostage.

The man is also not afraid to be brutal with his gun as when she trips he borderline pistol-whips her across the mouth.

 

“ _Move it brat!_ ”

 

Head hanging low, she dares not argue.

They lead her around many twisting passages, turning so that counting her paces Janey finds that she reaches the hundreds before they pass through a doorway. Her feet hurt before they stop, and the blood from the cut on her brow opens and begins to trickle warmly down her temple.

Janey gets the impression that this is mainly to confuse her, and that the number of halls could be reduced by half if they had gone through the front.

The minor irritation that comes from her thinking this makes her lip want to curl, but she holds back.

The warehouse is connected to another building.

From the chemical smell that permeates the air, she makes a guess.

 

_A hospital?_

 

Her head begins to pound as blood pools in her mouth.

The taste is hot.

Metallic and sour.

That hit did more than she at first suspected. 

 

The footsteps are now many, filing throughout the chilly hallways past her. Her bare feet stick against linoleum, and in vain she tries to scream for help. It only gets her another smack though. 

Her cries go unheard. 

Nobody even pauses a breath, Janey can feel it.

Everyone is aware that she has been taken from her home, but no one is surprised.

 

The knot in her stomach becomes tighter.

There have been others then.

 

There's the sound of a heavy door unlocking.

Then, the man that had chastised Malvolio speaks.

 

“Here we are. _Enjoy your stay._ ”

 

Malvolio she thinks grabs her shoulder suddenly, flinging her through the room with a quiet laugh. She hits the ground hard on her side, breath shoved out of her and leaving Janey gasping for breath. She hears the door closing even as she forces herself to her feet, the wire cuffs biting gashes into her skin. She blindly slams her shoulder up against the door, shrieking once in burning defiance at being so roughly manhandled.

Behind her, loud conversations come to a dead halt, and she feels hundreds of eyes pin her down as a stranger.

Then there's silence as she slides to the floor, sweating and bleeding.

 

Her nails bite into the palms of her hands as the wires cut deeper, and she's sure the tendons in her wrist bleed red.

 

It doesn't take her long to realize that she's the victim to an audience.

A moment of dank quiet, then mutterings and whispers break out like goosebumps over pale skin. Child-like tones. Half-murmured prayers. 

She recoils from it, the noises too loud.

Janey can't see where she is, and it terrifies her for a moment to think of a surprise attack.

Then there's a commanding voice, bursting over the crowd.

"Greg! Untie the newbie!"

 

A pattering of feet.

Soft. Diligent.

Dutiful.

 

Someone touches her cheek softly, for a moment Janey wonders if someone will speak to her, offer her any information.

The voice that leans into her ear is rough.

High.

Quiet.

 

“Hold still. This will _hurt_.”

 

Then her mouth is one fire as a small hand rips away the duct tape from her lips. She gasps, then the blindfold comes off. like dawn breaking over a horizon.

What Janey sees makes her eyes widen and her mouth fall open in shock.

 

Because despite all of her Dad's cautions at not expecting _anything_ in strange situations, she can't help but stare at the sight before her.

It's not a cell.

 

_It's a room._

_A giant **bloody room.**_

 

And surrounding her, sitting atop shining white chairs and dangling their feet over the edge of the overhanging balconies.... Eating and sleeping and singing........staring and muttering and in the middle of running........are _children._

 

Teens. Kids.

Toddlers. 

Mere infants squalling in their brothers' and sisters' arms. 

Everywhere. 

All of them wearing hospital clothes.

All of them fixed into mid-action by her presence.

 

For a moment, Janey can't tell if she's dreaming.

Then a hand grips her shoulder, and she looks up and true to her nature, _analyzes._

It's a young boy. 

The person who's helped her regain her sight can only be ten at most.

He's so clean he almost squeaks, as are the rest of the children. Sterilization clean.

He has bandages wrapped around his thin, wiry wrists, as if stitches lie there from old surgery. His smile is crooked, but it instantly springs up a well of comfort inside her.

 

Blonde hair.

Messy and sticking up haphazardly in all directions

Glasses.

Behind those panels of plastic his eyes are filled with a wisdom that Janey's only ever seen in an adult's face, or her own reflection.

The boy crouches, his English accent giving away his roots as he sticks out a thin, pale hand to shake.

 

“Welcome to EASTSTAR. Name's Gregory. Gregory Tyler.”

A few kids whoot and cat-call, and many stomp the tables in welcome.

Janey doesn't move, frozen into place by the realization that there are no exits that aren't locked to this room.

A giant cage.

A giant room.

She holds up her bound wrists to Gregory, unsure of what to do.

"I think I'm bleeding." She whispers.

And then, because her head is spinning too much and her face hurts and she sees that her hands are bright crimson, Janey faints.

The last thing she feels is several pairs of arms rushing over to catch her, and Greg's husky laugh in her ear.

"Yeah. we all bled too, when we arrived."

She doesn't respond, the world fading to dark.


	8. The ice within Fire

Michael is proud of the card he's made.

Everyone else seems to have forgotten, but he hasn't. He's made sure of it.

He's even made sure to dutifully remind Janey every other hour that he sees her.

 

It's his Dad and Papa's anniversary next week.

 

Looking down at the rectangular piece of construction paper, he folds the bright green edges and smiles indulgently at the safety scissors to his left.

All nice straight lines.

There's a kind of calm in making something orderly, and even though he doesn't fully understand why Papa is so stressed lately, he hopes it will remedy some of it.

In his five year old mind, sparkles can fix almost anything.

Glitter can calm even the most complicated emotions.

 

The other kids are all playing on the carpet. Miss Oats has long since given up on getting him to play there too, despite coaxing him with cookies and toy trucks.

They build towers, laugh with each other, smearing paint on their own cheeks and fingers so they resemble brightly coloured puppets. Michael sits apart from them, but it's not because they won't let him join.

He could be like them, if he tried.

He knows he could.

Yet he feels uncomfortable around children his age, like looking after babies he sometimes doesn't understand them. This vaguely worries him and he knows sometimes Papa asks Dad if he was like that as a child. However Michael is rarely lonely.

Just like Janey, he doesn't mind being different.

To him, being different just makes him part of the Watson-Holmes family.

 

Though unlike his sister and his Dad, he doesn't hesitate to smile at the little girl who calls herself Sophie and asks if she can share his craft table.

He has his Papa's liking for friends.

A warm heart.

****** 

He's just signed his name on the card when a knock at the door makes him look up from his work.

His heart stops for a moment in fear.

Uncle Mycroft stands in the shadow of the doorway like a statue, and if Michael is right it's much to early for him to  come pick him up. 

The little crayon falls from his chubby fist in surprise.

Sophie, who's been telling him all about her cottage that she goes to every summer with her Mommy and Daddy, falls silent at his expression which is a mixture of slow confusion bubbling into fear. She turns to look at the balding man in a suit standing at the Kindergarten door, and even she can see the coolness in his eyes. Her shrinking away does little to affect the man in the suit that is inscrutably frigid.

The little boy knows something is wrong as he stand up, the card still gripped in his arms. Mycroft sees the poor stick-man image, one with wild curls, the other with a brown jumper. His mouth is a tight line.

Michael has never seen his body outlined so rigidly with tension.

 

“Uncle Mycroft.... what's wrong?”

 He feels the meaty hand land on him, the weight of it pressing down on his shoulder as Michael stares at him with an unreadable expression.

His voice is soft. Whispery.

Solemn.

 

“You need to come home Michael. Papa and Dad want to see you.”

 

He doesn't have to say anything.

The little boy knows as he folds the card and puts it into the pocket of his uniform. His eyes are like a man about to walk into a war zone.

 

“Janey?”

 

Without a word, Mycroft nods.

 

And then, because Michael is sometimes even more observant than his Dad, he takes his Uncle's hand in his own and asks without fear.

 

“Do they know you're keeping a secret?”

 

He feels the fingers jump in his grip, and Mycroft's face whips around to stare for a moment at his nephew.

He returns the stare as if challenging him to take on all of his five-year old wisdom.

Michael's brown eyes are as  unreadable as the grey sky they walk under on their way to the nondescript black vehicle waiting in the parking lot, and in his car-seat he takes out his card and smooths the wrinkled edges, his thumbs pressing over the curls.

Staring into the sun until it hurts his eyes, his young face begins to wrinkle with worry.

 

He holds onto one hope though.

 

Wherever Janey is, she is his sister.

She always, _always_ finds a way to make things right, no matter how hard she screws up.

That is the one thing that Michael unfailingly respects her for.

 

****

 

John knows Sherlock is speaking, but it's like coming up for air after being drowned in freezing water.

He's shouting actually.

Screaming.

Like everything's gone in slow motion he can see his husband throwing Mycroft against the wall, snarling outrage at him for something.

It must hurt as the plaster creaks behind them.

From his position on the floor he can see both their faces.

Pained.

Rage.

Red fury.

Ice.

John should stop him.

He doesn't.

He can't.

 

All he can do is absently hold Michael in his arms, rocking him and feeling his presence and thinking

_I should never have let her stay home._

 

His son is quiet, holding something that he doesn't let either parent see. He's been quiet since he's been brought back from school, and John can only silently shake in relief that he's still here, that he isn't gone too.

 

_What must he be thinking?_

 

John wonders.

Then the soldier looks at himself and also questions what's happened to his body.

There was a time when missing people didn't make him numb, unable to think.

There was a time when he had walked past dead and dying men, indifferent to their suffering.

 

It all changes when it's someone you love. He's gone for too long without losing someone.

He had almost forgotten this kind of visceral agony.

 

this pain that changes even Sherlock as without hesitation he punches his own brother square in the jaw.

That's when John moves to hold him back.

Only because he doesn't want Michael to witness his Dad brawling on the floor.

Only because he's reminded too much of Afghanistan.

He holds his back by the shoulders, and forces himself to hear what's going on.

Like turning up the volume on an amp, it comes to him.

 

“-What do you mean you didn't tell us _everything_?!?”

 

Sherlock spits, trying in vain to wrestle himself from John's grip. His eyes are like blue fire as he writhes.

Mycroft stoops, clutching at his face where an ugly purple welt is forming just above his eye.

When he speaks it's through gritted teeth.

 

“There... there are some _issues_ surrounding the NORTHSTAR experiment....”

 

_NORTHSTAR._

 

John knows that acronym.

It makes his throat tighten and his head whips around to look at Michael, who's obviously trying very hard to analyze the situation.

Sherlock however, has been pushed far enough. He lunges again for his brother, rage making his entire body taught with anger.

“I _ssues!?_ And you didn't inform me of this _sooner?!_ How about telling me during the ten years that you pretended everything was going just _swimmingly?!_ ”

 

He almost reaches Mycroft's neck again, but John wraps himself more firmly about his middle. He heaves his husband up under the shoulders, hissing into his ear.

“ _Not in front of our son._ ”

 

Mycroft hears the mutter, and adjusts his tie in discomfort. His cheeks are red, and John isn't so sure if it's from bruising or more from _shame._ Sherlock, finally relaxing a little bit, spares a look at Michael and after a moment, nods curtly. It stops his physical fury, but the anger is still there. Just under the surface.

Simmering.

John lets him go, but only to turn around so he can regard the small boy who's been clutching the bright green rectangle of paper in his hands.

He looks so frightened, that for a moment John can't help but press his face to his chest.

Michael. wrapping in woollen sweater and warmth can smell the scent of his Papa. It anchors him as he closes his eyes.

John's whisper is hoarse.

 

“Go find Mrs. Hudson. She's in the kitchen making tea. Dad and I.... need to talk to Uncle Mycroft for a little bit.”

 

Nodding, his son presses a kiss into his neck. His whisper is tiny. Afraid.

“Janey will be home _soon_ right?”

 

And because John can't answer because his throat is burning, Sherlock comes forward and wraps them both in an embrace, his voice murderously icy. His hug is different.

Vice-like.

The embrace of someone refusing to let the people he cares about to be out of his sight ever again.

“She will if I have any say in it.”

 

Michael shivers then, because he glimpses into his Dad's eyes. He sees the old Sherlock, the one that's been hidden.

The one before John ever met him.

The one that could kill.

It's only for a moment, but John sees it too and he holds Sherlock's hand as if he can keep him from fading away.

 

 


	9. Stars Within A Cage

When Janey opens her eyes, the brightness of the room around her makes her momentarily blinded.

_Where....?_

Dizzy, disoriented, she struggles to recall where she is when a rough and rather joyful voice helps her out.

 

“EASTSTAR. Location unknown. This is your room.”

 

Trying to sit up, she is distressed to discover she's been manacled to the mattress she lies on. The chains clink and hold her wrists and ankles in place, and by quick observation she sees they are connected to a button that lies just beyone her reach. Gregory Tyler puts a hand on her arm to keep her from panicking, his brown eyes gentle behind the lense of his glasses. The touch of a stranger though does little to stop her heart from racing and her thoughts from spinning.

She takes in his features as he crouches over her prone form.

Ignoring his kindness, she sees only the absolute facts.

 

_Blonde._

_Accent is British._

_Tired-looking._

_Three days without sleep._

_There's honey on his sleeve._

_Breakfast._

_Had a banana and toast._

_Crumbs on his shirt._

_Eyes are honest._

 

Then she stops, because in the boys' face is a sort of softness, a kind of protective gaze that he seems to hold as he looks at everything. His contact is like a person touching a wounded animal as he silently waits for her to relax, letting her organize him into her mind.

It's like he knows what she's doing, and is letting her because he understands.

Even though that's impossible, because only her Dad could understand something like this.

At least that's what she thought.

It occurs to her that he's showing sentiment.

Something that is unfamiliar for Janey when dealing with virtual strangers. She abruptly speaks, orders crisp and clear.

Like a soldier.

Her mind is now focused on one thing only.

Escape.

 

“Who's in charge of keeping me here?”

 

The boy answers, prompt but slightly distracted. It seems he's fascinated by the outline of the beds, their pattern making a perfect star in the room. Ten beds, all alligned in this strange but perfect shape. Decoration?

Janey's the only one here besides him though. All the other beds lie empty, like abandoned homes longingly waiting for their owners to return. In fact the room is odd in general, all white yet not giving the same atmosphere as a hospital. It's more like a silent and deceptively charming tomb.

Freezing.

Death seems to linger in the very walls.

 

“There's cameras everywhere. Nobody has to keep you. You won't make it past the first gate and there's eight of them. I'm just here because I'm faster than the others and finished my laps early. The nurse said I could go.”

 

His tongue moves inside his mouth, touching the inside of his cheek in speculation. He's in general a twitchy sort of individual, her knees either thrumming or his fingers tapping when he's not up and about.

When his fingers reach up to adjust his glasses, Janey sees both wrists have been tightly bandaged. He notices her staring.

“Tests. They tried to inject me with something, but I reacted badly. Got a nasty rash.”

 

_Tests._

 

The way the boy calmly says this makes bile rise to the back of her throat. Her voice is sharp as a knife.

Cold.

“How long have you been here?”

 

The boy doesn't answer, instead he responds with a question.

His eyes light up as he thinks of much more interesting things than his detainment.

“Did you dream of stars too? When you were out I mean. I dream almost every night of planets and stars here.... strange, wonderful dreams....”

 

His eyes, which seem to reflect something deeper hold the beauty of his imagination softly. Janey can almost imagine the universe, the way he describes it. He despicts a perfect galaxy with a few small words in the same way she can make a melody out of just a few piano keys. However, she has no time for dreams at the moment, however beautiful.

“How long have I been out for?”

 

The boy thinks for a moment, counting carefully once on his hands. His voice is sure as he runs a hand through his blonde spikes.

“About six hours I'd say.”

 

Then he breaks out into a wide smile, the kind that lights up his entire face as he giggles.

 

“You _snore._ Did you know that?”

 

Just for a small, tiny moment, Janey decides she might actually get along well with this Gregory Tyler. She tries to suppress a small smile as she looks at him again for a second time.

Perhaps she shouldn't have been so quick to order him around like a servant.

Then he remembers.

“Oh. What's your name?”

 

Having to reply makes her chest all frozen again. Filled with worry and fear. When she replies, it's stiffly.

“Janey. Janey Victoria Holmes-Watson.”

 

Greg smiles then, repeating the name softly to himself. He doesn't seem to notice her pain, or mercifully doesn't ask her about it.

 

“You have twenty-five letters in your name. Twenty-five is my favourite number.”

 

With that he leans forward, unhitching the bolts that hold the girl into place. The buttons emits a loud, droning buzz. He shrugs in way of apology.

"Had to make sure you wouldn't try to strangle me in a panic. Happens sometimes."

 She sits up, suppressing a small smile as she rubs at her wrists.

The odd boy holds out a bandaged arm to help her down, and after a moment of hesitation she takes it.

It's warm, and Janey can feel a pulse in his wrist.

Maybe it's the way she grips his hand, but she almost swears it sounds like the pounding of two drums.

Strange, strange boy.

 

*****

 

As it turns out, EASTSTAR has over two hundred different children staying or rather being held captive in its' walls. An old hospital and military barrack, Janey catches a glimpse of dry desert out the window, confirming her suspicions that she had been knocked out for much longer than she had originally thought in the trunk of that car. There's a wind that blows warm sand across the plains, creating large dunes that look like they might be fun to climb under different circumstances. Though the outside looked hot and blistering, inside the building the halls are ice cold. During her rest Greg explained patiently that a nurse had changed her clothes.

(“They throw away all our old ones. Shame too, I had a really nice bowtie...”)

 

Like an entrepreneur he dutifully pointed out important places and rooms, gabbing away so Janey didn't have to. It was actually a lot like having Michael around, and though her heart ached every time she saw that it wasn't her little brother holding her hand, it did take the edge off of her lingering loneliness. The truth was she didn't know how to react to Greg, who she soon found out was very open about affection and very hands-on with his emotions. Like a butterfly, he frequently liked to make contact with her shoulder, her arm or her hand. It was not reserved to her either. Other kids who passed by, chatting away with one another or in silence would welcome his contact like an old friend. It seemed he had most of his little world utterly charmed.

He was light.

Airy, and as unattached to any one place as a kite.

 

The biggest thing he pressed though on her was to give up thought of escape. When Janey bristled at the idea of staying, he hastened to explain.

“One kid I watched tried. They beat him to death outside on the training ground. Used an iron pipe.”

 

Pointing out a window, the lonely ground outside has a solitary red stain marked in the distance. It was old, but because everything else was golden brown it lay starkly like a living thing.

A silent warning.

 

The note of seriousness in his voice makes Janey shiver, changing the subject.

She doesn't like the way her new charge has fallen silent.

“How many floors does this place have?”

 

To which Greg brightens from the sad sort of kicked puppy face he had been wearing when remembering the death of the boy.

 

“Oh. Three. But we're only allowed on two of 'em. Third's only for when it's our turn to be tested.”

 

The boy doesn't give any more information about what exactly he means by “testing” and Janey doesn't push him. The bandages on his wrists are enough evidence that they are not simply 20 questions on a piece of paper.

Many of the other kids are not walking around unscathed either. Wheelchairs, canes and stitches seem common. Almost a decoration.

Everything looks so clean and open though.

 

In fact, most of the place could be beautiful, if it weren't for the decidedly medical way it had about it.

There's a game room for the younger kids when they're bored, comfy bean-bag chairs for curling up into and a gym that they were directed to go to at least once a day. Lots of snacks, and three square meals. Many kids reclined and relaxed, drawing or reading or even singing quietly.

Many of them could even beg for extra food and the large but kind nurse would bend easily.

(In fact, Janey had been informed the first room she had been dropped off in had been the cafeteria.)

 

Some of the more artistic kids had painted some of the walls in an attempt to make the place more inviting. It was as if it was a fancy boarding school, one that if you didn't talk about it's darker underside, you could enjoy the bright exterior.

And that is exactly what most of the kids have done, from her observations.

Tried to make the best of a scary situation.

Like a mini-society, they have leaders and followers.

Greg had informed her once in a breathless stream of information that someone named

"Katie" was the oldest kid and was to be minded.

 

Also, Janey notes that she has seen over a hundred cameras, and absolutely no unguarded exits.

It's a giant, gilded cage.

And glancing at Greg, she ssee in his eyes he knows it too. Even as he makes the best of it by listing off all the good things about the place....

There's a longing to be home. A place she can't ask him about for fear of her own throat tightening.

A silent ache both of them understand but choose to ignore.

The last of her coldness melts away towards him as she looks into the puzzle room and sees a jigsaw.

She gets an idea then.

A way to momentarily distract herself and him from the growing gap of private memories that's dividing them.

“Want to see the stars?”

 

She asks, and Greg confused but willing nods slowly.

Pulling him by the hand like an owner with a dog, Janey begins to grab all the puzzle boxes, her hands reaching for liquid glue and snatching it off the white pristine counter as she stares for a moment at the blank brick, visualizing.

Then, without telling her friend what she's about to do she sets to work, her Music room playing a tune that she hums under her breath to remind her of home.


	10. The Points Of a Northstar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is where the crossovers really begin :3 this story is set around the tenth doctor's life so it's tennant if you need to visualize him. let me know what you think!!

Mycroft sits down awkwardly in one of the chairs in front of the fireplace, wearily rubbing his eyes and trying not to watch his brother's angry pacing that seems to have no end in sight. Like a tiger that's been caged for far too long his long strides take up the entirety of the room, claiming it as his own as John sits coldly across from him.

The fury and the mouthpiece.

Both united as one in this case against him.

 

It seems like lately everyone and everything was like that. Against him.

Stubbornly, unendingly against him.

His voice is sharp as a tack as he speaks.

 

“Sit _down_ Sherlock. You're making me dizzy just watching this mad tangent your on.”

 

 

The reply is only a small sort of snort, the kind that makes any kind of possible argument in his head sound weak and useless. There's no helping it.

Sherlock is angry.

Truly, frighteningly angry.

If Mycroft could feel fear he would.

 

John leans forward so that his knuckles touch his chin, his tone light but filled with a silent threat.

“I think you had better tell us what's going on here Mycroft. Or I can't guarantee your safety in this house.”

 

With those words a cruel smile turns Sherlock's lips, and his older brother blinks slowly as he gathers his thoughts for a moment. There's so much to say.... and he's not sure where to begin.

 

So he starts with the day almost twelve years ago, the one that had first entangled the two men into the complicated and top-secret experiment known as NORTHSTAR.

“Do you remember when I told you that I could give you a child with genetic traits from both of you?”

 

John snorts, nodding his head curtly.

“It's not a conversation I would forget any time soon. I wasn't sure whether to be happy that we'd have a family or mildly creeped out that you had a hand in experimenting in human genetics.”

Sherlock continues pacing, but he makes the memory clearer as he speaks.

“You really wanted to adopt. In the end I convinced you to trust Mycroft, ironically enough.”

 

The look he shoots to his brother is one that's barely a step away from murderous.

Mycroft however seems unfazed.

 

“Yes. When I brought Janey to your home, and later on Michael, I told you that the experiment was still in a single testing phase. That no other subjects had been tried....”

 

He pauses, and then for the first time a moment of embarrassment crosses the man's face.

His voice is deadpan in the air as he leans back, preparing himself for an onslaught of rage.

 

“I lied.”

 

The sound of Sherlock's feet padding forward across the floor gives John just enough time to block him before he lunges for his brother, teeth gritted into a snarl.

“ _Someone's going after them aren't they? **Who else did you try this experiment on?** ”_

 

Holding him only by the collar of his shirt, John fixes a look on the man in the suit, wondering the same thing.

Mycroft opens his mouth, but it turns out he doesn't have to.

Because at the moment there is the strange sound of an asthmatic lung filling the room, and a soft flash of light coming from the hall.

His voice is deadly soft as he leans heavily on his umbrella, as if all the world's problems rested upon his shoulders.

 

“One pair is already here it seems....”

 

The clattering of the china in front of them gives signal to something heavy landing rather unceremoniously on the hardwood. John releases Sherlock, because his husband has become frozen like a sheet of glass.

His voice is a tightly coiled spring. It's filled with accusation.

 

“You _didn't-_ ”

Converse shoes squeak on the floor, and there's a sort of tense moment where John can't turn around because he's fighting off Sherlock that he feels a pair of eyes infinitely older than he's ever known gaze over the room.

When he does look, the blonde woman standing beside the tall, soft-faced man offers him a small smile.

She's carrying a gun.

Except it's not any kind of gun John recognizes.

 

“Mycroft.”

 

The man says testily.

Sherlock's brother manages a quick nod.

“Doctor.”


	11. Every Day Of My Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if my updates haven't been as frequent, I've gotten a little discouraged with my story as it seems like not a lot of people are enjoying it. However thanks to a very nice comment I'm back on track and as happy as ever :P now without further a do, here we go!

The white noise is deafening.

Filling everything and engulfing all into it's bleakness, it consumes like fire.

It knows everything.

Feels everything.

Knows every question he's going to ask, and yet still doesn't mind his questions.

Michael feels like this is the only way to describe looking into the eyes of the man crouching before him, smiling and offering a hand. The blonde child, sitting in the corner of his room barely acknowledges him, choosing instead to focus almost entirely on the Rubik's cube in front of him. His chubby hands grip and turn the blocks slowly and smoothly, creating patterns instead of solving it. Michael's already made it whole before, there's no reason to any more. The strangers that have entered his room watch him without saying much, as if they sense that this bedroom is the little boy's quiet spot.

Yet this is not Michael's bedroom.

That is painfully obvious.

Too many books, even for a five year old as intelligent as him.

The bed is too big, but not big enough for an adult.

 

He can't leave Janey's room, even though his sister would be furious with him if she were here. He needs to stay. So she can yell at him when she comes back. So she can call him stupid but not really mean it and shove him. He'd take it too, he'd take any kind of physical contact because it would mean she was here and not-

 

Michael stops that thought at peers closely at the man before him, then at the blonde woman behind him, sitting on a bed that's not hers. His eyes narrow calculatingly, and Rose Tyler gets the distinct impression that though he's young he misses nothing.

Just like the man who still paces downstairs, making barely-audible footfalls on the hardwood.

The man that doesn't hesitate to inform her that his brother is responsible for everything that's happened.

Her eyes close for a moment as pain spasm's over her cheeks, and both Michael and the Doctor notice but choose to ignore it. She has too much pride to be comforted right now.

 

The child's voice is high as he asks the simple question on his mind.

“Are you two here to find Janey?”

 

The man with the converse shoes and funny coat smiles sadly, and it's the sort of upturning of lips that reminds Michael sharply of his Papa.

Papa only ever smiled like that when he was in pain and trying to hide it.

Yet this man's face settles into that smile like it's the only one he knows.

 

“My name's The Doctor Michael, and yes, Rose and I are here to help. But we're also looking for someone too.”

 

Michael nods, this much he has surmised. The way he grips the man's hand suddenly is in a comforting manner, like he's meant to be the one keeping a brave face instead of the adults.

“There are other kids missing. Other kids like Janey. I'm sorry. You must miss them.”

 

The Doctor man smiles at him, but he lets go of his hand. Calculated distance.

Michael knows he doesn't want to get too close.

He's afraid of losing people subconsciously.

It's the same reason his Dad doesn't often show love the way most other kids' Fathers do. Michael doesn't mind it though, as Papa has always been able to crack that side.

It's apparent the blonde woman had cracked this Doctor man's side as well. She stands and wraps an arm half about his shoulders, and the man's false smile fades.

 

“Actually I never got to know him.... See my son and I have never met.....”

 

Rose's fingers tighten on the Doctor's hand, and her smile is one of the most beautiful things Michael has ever seen when he asks

“But you still love him?”

 

When she laughs softly through suppressed tears, her voice to him is not unlike an angel's.

 

“Very much. If I could, I would have let him see his son every day. I love both of them very much. Just like your Papa and Dad love your sister. We'll all do anything we can to get them back.... understand?”

 

Michael is quiet for a very long moment, and the two adults wonder if somehow the boy has become disinterested or distracted. However it's not that.

Michael is imagining what it must be like to love someone you've never met.

The pain that fills his chest is so deep he hastily stores it away in his garden before it drowns him.

Filed under things that shouldn't be.

 

 

Then his round little eyes fill with grief, and Rose steps forward as his little body begins to tremble.

“I want my sister back. I want Janey!”

 

Michael begins to sob, face turning red as he curls into a ball and covers his eyes. The blonde woman holds him tightly as he wails, oblivious to the rush of footsteps and the warmth of his Papa's hands about him. All he's imagining is how mad he had been at his older sister this morning. Then Michael cries harder, and it's shocking to see for everyone. Never before has John looked at his son and seen him as his actual age until now. Just a scared little boy.

A frightened baby.

And he holds him tighter and begins to sob too, and Sherlock downstairs stops pacing and listens with pained, closed eyes.

His voice is cold as he looks at his brother, whom after their long discussion has curled up in the chair and gone silent as ice.

 

He can't help his accusation as he stalks past him, clattering the porcelain china that still lies untouched on the table.

 

“You caused this.”

 

And Mycroft opens one pale blue eye and winces infinitesimally. Remembering the conversation they had only hours before.

 

****

 

“Who's this?”

 

Had been the first words spoken after the man in the trenchcoat and the woman with the gun came waltzing into their living room, and John quite frankly wasn't surprised at himself when he uttered those words. After all, he had a right to know within reason why his husband had begun to swear loudly and pull at his curls, and why Mycroft had gone dead still as if hoping if he froze long enough the man with spiked hair and strange eyes wouldn't notice him. It had gone absolutely dead quiet in the brief second that the man had introduced himself.

Except he hadn't really at all, just given his title.

 

_Doctor._

 

Doctor of what John had absolutely no idea.

Nor does anyone seem particularly willing to share the answer with him. Instead he is surprised to find Sherlock standing in front of his chair, barring it as if trying to protect him. Like a skinny barricade, the anger rolling off of him borderlines on outrage. John's not sure if he can reign him in when he's like this, and the startled look he flashes to Mycroft is met with a tired rolling of eyes. It's obvious this is not the first time Sherlock has met the quiet man who stands both unarmed and yet poised as if to run at a moment's notice.

 

“Get out.”

Sherlock's tone is biting as he jerks his chin to the door curtly, voice cold enough to kill small rodents.  Everything in his posture screams danger, and John knows well enough that when his Detective is worried like this he has cause for fear. Standing, he reaches almost instinctively for the gun he's kept hidden in the waistband of his jeans since he found out about Janey's disappearance. Just as his hands close around it's handle, Mycroft's voice breaks the tension.

 

“Sherlock he's just as worried as you are about his own son!”

 

His younger brother turns to look at him, as if he is solely responsible for things such as the extinction of tigers in the East and global warming and painful childbirth. His voice almost shakes with anger.

“And who's fault is _that?_ Out! Last time you showed up I was nearly killed!”

 

“He saved our _lives_ Sherlock.”

 

Mycroft growls, and John feels like he's missing a piece, a story that's never been told to him. His hands clench as he forces himself between the stranger and his husband, feeling like he's putting himself in the direct line of fire. Sherlock catches the sleeve of his shirt but John pulls away, coming closer the those sad eyes as slowly he stares.

This Doctor does not appear dangerous. As the two men lock eyes and look at each other, that's the first thought John processes.

Not dangerous.

Then....

 

_Only sad._

 

A lonely face looks into another face that knows what it's like to feel empty, and something passes between them.

John is unsure of what.

It's a single question, and it is sent in the strangest way only by looking.

 

_Is it true? Do you feel the same pain that's gnawing a hole through my chest?_

 

And a single answer.

 

_**Every day.** _

 

When John turns around and faces Mycroft again, his voice is seething.

"How many others?"

 

Sherlock's brother stares at the floor, like it's suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. His voice sounds endless, hollow as if the man realizes the shock of what's to come.

"Countless. You are going to have to make some more tea John...."

 

At that, the Doctor laughs softly.

"Actually, if anything I'd prefer some fruit. Got any bananas around?"


End file.
